


Not Quite According to Plan

by BeeDaily



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, E-mail, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2020-05-07 09:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19206508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeDaily/pseuds/BeeDaily
Summary: For Fleamont's retirement party, Euphemia hires her favourite event planner, Lily Evans, and wrangles her son, James, into assisting in the planning.





	1. 100: An E-mail

**TO:** levans@evanseventplanning.com[](mailto:levans@evanseventplanning.com)  
**FR:** euphemia@sleekeazy.com[](mailto:euphemia@sleekeazy.com)  
**CC:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com  
**SUBJECT:** URGENT!!! PARTY

Hello, Lily, darling!

URGENT business!!

Fleamont is RETIRING!!

Yes, WONDERFUL, isn’t it? Such an occasion MUST be honoured with just the right amount of tasteful décor, jovial community, and strategically poured alcoholic beverages. I trust NO ONE else to get it right.

And GOOD NEWS!! My son is home and has promised to remain on level ground long enough to assist in party planning!!

And he wouldn’t dare break such a promise to his mother, who may one day soon be going off to her own ETERNAL retirement.

Talk soon!!

E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** So in a desperate attempt to claw my way out of a truly dedicated writing slump, I opened a document one day and began to bargain with myself. "Write 100 words. JUST a 100 words! Easy!" So I did. And then the next day: "Just 200 WORDS!" And the next: "Just 300 WORDS!" And as I started doing this, I thought...well, what if it was EXACTLY* 100 words? And then EXACTLY 200? And then EXACTLY 300...and so on and so forth, you get the picture, and BOOM, ta-da, here is this story. A story where each successive chapter is going to have EXACTLY* 100 words more than the last. Because there's nothing like a gimmick to keep the juices flowing. I'm a couple of hundreds ahead of the game presently, so I'll update every few days as I feel like it, and we'll see how long this goes. Mucho bisses, thx, here we go. =)
> 
> *"Exactly" according to Word's word count function, anyway. I'm not pulling out my abacus as these things get longer, and even A03 is counting in a different way already, so don't come and word count shame me, WORD TOLD ME IT WAS FINE.


	2. 200: His Phone

**JAMES:** mum

eternal retirement

really

**EUPHEMIA:**?

**JAMES:**  this is fraud

a) I agreed to nothing

b) he’s retiring from the LAB

to the board

his life is changing not at all

except he’ll occasionally have to brush his hair now

and is forty percent less likely to accidentally blow something up

*thirty

*twenty-five

why are you giving a party???

**EUPHEMIA:** Sorry wrong number goodbye.

* * *

 

**JAMES:** dad

do you know what your wife is doing

a PARTY

for your RETIREMENT

you’re not retiring, dad

you’re moving floors

at BEST

I’ve got to sort out a new project

or starve

probably

adulthood, etc

my JOB, remember?

I don’t have time to party plan

a party of LIES

and she can’t just say things like ETERNAL RETIREMENT and think I’ll agree

I won’t

DO SOMETHING

DAD

**FLEAMONT:** hi son

* * *

 

**SIRIUS:**  look

don’t shoot the messenger

but

you’ve been removed from the family group chat

**JAMES:** what?

**SIRIUS:** there was a vote

it didn’t go your way

significantly, actually

was unanimous

democracy in action

**JAMES:**  ???

**SIRIUS:**  #teamparty

**JAMES:**  fuck you

* * *

 

**TO:** euphemia@sleekeazy.com[](mailto:levans@evanseventplanning.com)  
**FR:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com  
**SUBJECT:** RE: URGENT!!! PARTY

No.

* * *

 

**TO:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com[](mailto:levans@evanseventplanning.com)  
**FR:** euphemia@sleekeazy.com   
**SUBJECT:** RE: URGENT!!! PARTY

Noon tomorrow, my office.

xoxo


	3. 300: Her Phone

**LILY:**  Can you meet with the Brotmans for me tomorrow? Gender reveal? 

**MARY:** Ughhhhhhhhhh

Fucking GENDER REVEALS

WHY

**LILY:** £££

**MARY:** Never enough

NEVER enough

Can’t we send Petunia?

She does co-own this bloody business, if you’d care to remember

Or hold her at all responsible for it

Ever

**LILY:** Mary.

**MARY:** Just saying

**LILY:** Not now.

**MARY:** Yeah, yeah

**LILY:** She has an appointment tomorrow, anyway.

**MARY:**???

**LILY:** New florist

**MARY:** What’s wrong with our current florists?

**LILY:** Idk.

They vaccinate their children?

Or voted remain?

It gets her out of the office, all right?

**MARY:** Bloody hell, our bar is that low now?

**LILY:** Sadly.

Brotmans?

**MARY:** Ugh.

FINE.

Why can’t you?

Hot date???

**LILY:** Yes. At noon. On a Tuesday.

**MARY:** Afternoon delight =D

**LILY:** It’s Euphemia Potter.

**MARY:** Your raunchy afternoon shag is with Euphemia Potter?

**LILY:** Mary.

**MARY:** I would absolutely have raunchy afternoon sex with Euphemia Potter

She is such a treat

Every time she comes into the office, she leaves behind the lingering scent of Chanel No. 5 and pure legend

**LILY:** I’ll let her know you’re interested.

**MARY:** Thank you.

Is it another charity thing?

**LILY:** No.

Her husband is retiring, apparently?

And I guess her son is home? She copied and shamed him on the email. She wants him to help plan it.

**MARY:** Classic Euphemia.

Hot?

**LILY:** Outside? I don’t know. I haven’t been.

**MARY:** The son, Lily.

**LILY:** Bye, Mary.

**MARY:** I’m going to Google him.

**LILY:** BYE, MARY.

**MARY:** AFTERNOOOOOON DELIGHTTTT

* * *

**TO:** euphemia@sleekeazy.com [](mailto:levans@evanseventplanning.com)  
**FR:** levans@evanseventplanning.com   
**CC:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com  
**SUBJECT:** RE: URGENT!!! PARTY

Happy to help! We’ll make it one to remember.

As per our phone conversation, I’ll see you noon tomorrow.

Lily

* * *

**TO:** levans@evanseventplanning.com  
**FR:** mmacdonald@evanseventplanning.com  
**SUBJECT:** LILLLLLY! LOOOOOK AT THESE PICS! AFTERNOON DELIGHT!! AFTERNOOOOOON DELIGHTTTTTT!!!!!

**[Message deleted]**


	4. 400: First Meeting (Her)

“She’s…what?”

Lily bobbles the stack of thick binders in her arms, expelling the incredulous question as she stares blankly at the smiling assistant who has perhaps suffered a minor blip in her execution of the English language.

“Late,” the woman repeats instead, unbelievably. “If you’ll just pop in here? Mrs. Potter will—”

“She’s late?”

“Yes.”

“Euphemia Potter. Late.”

“Yes. Cuppa?”

“I—yes.” Lily steps into the bright and sunny conference room, which is— _really?_ —indeed, empty. She glances over her shoulder, still searching for the prank. “Thank you?”

It’s decidedly more question than statement. Still, the assistant nods politely and exits, closing the conference room door behind her. Lily is left alone, heavy with binders and mounting confusion.

Euphemia Potter. _Late_.

Were pigs flying outside too?

Lily shakes her head, slowly making her way around the long glass table at the center of the room. There’s an elegant vase of cheery sunflowers set beside a many-buttoned phone, and Lily smiles at the pretty bouquet. _Very_ Euphemia. Unlike…the rest of this. But perhaps Lily ought’ve known better than to peg Euphemia Potter for anything. She’s worked with the woman often enough over the past year to know that Euphemia’s whims are broad, exacting, and eclectic. Unpredictable, always. Even this retirement party was shrouded in veiled mystery. Lily only hopes—

The conference room door opens.

“All right, _what_ …oh. Bugger. Sorry. Wrong room.”

_Pity_ , Lily muses, eyeing the tall, dark-haired, dish-of-an-intruder who’s just skidded to a halt inside the conference room doorway. She peruses shamelessly: _wild_ dark hair, posh brown specs, a pair of positively _lickable_ forearms…

_Afternoon delight._

“No problem,” she offers good-humouredly. “Better luck next time.”

“Yeah, thanks.” His lips quirk—one side higher than the other. Oh, _yum._ “Bye.”

He backtracks unhurriedly, with lingering eye contact. The door closes again.

Lily laughs faintly, opening a binder, humming.

_Skyrockets in flight…!_

A minute later, the door opens again.

Lily glances up. Blinks.

“Mate,” she says slowly. “Still me.”

The dish—returned—looks bashful. “I know. I—”

“Tea!” Euphemia’s assistant trills, striding briskly into the room. She brushes straight past the intruder to present Lily with a steaming mug. She turns. “Coffee, James?”

“No—”

“Your mother’s due any minute.”

“Any…what?”

“Running late, I’m afraid. But—”

“ _Late?_ ” the intruder— _James_ — sputters in the same choked, dumbfounded tone of voice Lily’s mind is currently blaring, _Mother_?

_Mother._

Mother.

Oh…bloody hell.


	5. 500: First Meeting (Him)

The gorgeous redhead surrounded by the halo of binders is staring at James like he’s some sort of offensive extraterrestrial.

Not entirely impossible, James shockingly concedes, narrowed gaze sweeping the previously familiar room in growing suspicion. Perhaps this is _all_ some extraterrestrial alternative plane—the sort where up is down, and left is right, and fit redheads with eyes like emeralds gawk at you in blatant perturb, because Euphemia Potter is _late_ , and that is an occurrence so positively _inconceivable_ that there is no earthly explanation _but_ complete cosmic collapse.

Well—that, or someone is having a laugh.

His mother, likely.

Strong toss-up.

“All right.” James immediately rounds on Petra. “What’s this? Retribution for eternal retirement?”

The assistant blinks. “She’s running late.”

“No.” Laughable. _Impossible_. “That’s not it.”

“It—”

“Petra.”

“I found it suspicious too,” the redhead chimes in.

James’s eyes flicker to her—then quickly away again. He can’t deal with… _that_ just yet. Not when an otherworldly apocalypse may be upon them.

Instead, he whirls back on Petra.

“See?” He raises a finger in pointed triumph. “ _Suspicious_.”

The assistant’s answering smile is bland, indulgent, and impenetrable.

Too much time with his mother, this one.

“I’ll send her straight in.” It’s the smoothest, simplest of dismissals, given just before Petra cleanly pivots, exiting the conference room and shutting the door behind her with a quiet _snick_.

James stares at the closed portal, waiting.

Five seconds.

Ten.

_Inconceivable._

“So…right room after all, I suppose.” Chair legs squeak against the floor behind him. “Prodigal son, yeah? I’m Lily. Evans. The event planner?”

Right. Now _this_ —the distracting stranger who’d watched him blatantly ogle her as he popped in and out of office doors like a complete knob.

Brilliant.

“James,” he confirms dully, turning.

She’s standing now, pretty and professional, arm extended. James meets the handshake, ignoring how soft her skin feels, how she squeezes his fingers in firm greeting, the easy humour in her features.

“Welcome home.” The teasing, wry smile hits James like an exploding firework. _Boom,_ straight to the stomach. She gestures to the table. “We can get started, if you’d like.”

James briefly eyes the chair in front of him. With lightening quick consideration— _Yes. No. Yes_ —he rounds the glass rectangle to drop into the plush seat directly beside hers instead.

“What’s your ugliest décor?” he asks. “I choose that one.”

Her lips tip. “Clever, but I don’t have ugly décor.”

“None? What about clients with rubbish taste?”

“That’s why they hire me.”

“There must be _something._ ”

“Must there?”

“In all this?” James motions to the binders spread across the table. “Look how many there are. It’s all very…Monica Gellar.”

Lily’s eyebrows lift. “Are you insulting Monica Gellar?”

“Me? Never.” James leans closer. “As an inarguable blend of Chandler and Rachel, I am _firmly_ pro-Monica.”

“An _inarguable_ blend.”

“Are you arguing?”

“Monica would.”

“I…bugger, that’s probably right.”

Then they’re both laughing.

 _Boom,_ go the fireworks.

 _Shit_ , James marvels.

The conference room door blows open.

“Darlings!” Euphemia cries.

 


	6. 600: Game

“Darlings!”

In an instant, Lily jumps near straight out of her seat. It’s an instinctual reaction, automatic— _silly_ , primarily—spurred by the unexpected arrival, the overly-effusive greeting…and bearing a laughable resemblance to startling like a naughty child who has just been caught with her hand in the biscuit jar.

Lily is not a child, nor is she filching forbidden desserts.

She _has_ been vaguely considering what Euphemia’s progeny might look like with fewer clothes, but that’s…quite different.

And fleeting, at best.

Mary’s fault, _entirely._

“Afternoon Delight” is bloody _catchy._

“Mrs. Potter.” Lily recovers swiftly, standing of her own volition, smiling through what she sincerely hopes is not too gruesome a flush. “It’s—”

“ ‘Mrs. Potter’?” Euphemia doffs her glamorous sunglasses, settling the pair atop her sleek, salt-and-pepper bob with a scolding moue. She unwinds a multicoloured scarf from around her neck, then prods it inside a handbag that’s nearly larger than she is. “So formal? It’s Euphemia, as always.”

Lily nods, bending obligingly to receive her cheek kiss when Euphemia reaches her side, absently noting that James Potter’s pretty hazel eyes are apparently maternally genetic.

_God._

Pretty hazel eyes? Is she _twelve_?

He’s a _client._

A charming, attractive client, but a client still.

“Keep your distance, please,” the nuisance himself declares. He’s standing now too, palms splayed wide. “I don’t know you.”

Euphemia ignores this, knocking aside his arms to fidget with his button-down. “Honestly. _Wrinkles_. Who raised you?”

“Someone keen on threatening eternal retribution for every minute I was late to _anything_ ,” James returns, though Lily notes he tugs at the shirt too. “Seen her?”

Euphemia raises one thin brow. “I’m sorry. Had I abandoned you with _such_ vile company?”

James’s eyes immediately flash over his mother’s head, meeting Lily’s.

 _No,_ Pretty Hazels say, and Lily bites her lip, even as he mutters, “Not the point—”

“What _is_ the point, then?” Euphemia sweeps back around the table. “We have a party to plan, and not a _moment_ to waste—”

“A _fake_ party,” James cuts in, hot on his mother’s heels. He pulls out her chair, dutiful despite any lingering identity misgivings. As Euphemia scoffs loudly, James glances at Lily. “Dad’s not retiring.”

He’s relentless. Ugly décor, part two. “Right.”

“I’m not joking.” And to his credit, he _is_ entirely straight-faced. “You’re being made party to fraud.”

 _Fraud?_ Lily almost laughs, but no one else is.

Fraud. 

Euphemia bristles in clear offense. “Really. He is _retiring_ —”

“From the lab. To the board.”

“— _momentous_ occasion—”

“Two floors! A bigger desk!”

“— _great_ change—“

“Preserved _dinosaur_ _fossils_ change more.”

Euphemia looks to Lily, with a sad head shake.

“You’ll have to forgive my son,” she whispers. “He’s a creative. Very talented, but _exceptionally_ imaginative.”

“I’m a photographer, not a traveling bard,” James retorts, then looks to Lily too. “Haven’t you objections to this?”

Honestly, Lily is still trying to discern what exactly she’d be objecting _to_. Lab to board. _Momentous_ occasion. Admittedly, it’s not often there are questions surrounding the event she’s planning’s…well, _event_ , but Lily is a consummate professional. See: Pretty Hazel Quick Recovery.

“Retirement…lab to board,” she repeats slowly, into the waiting silence. Then she nods. “I can work with that.”

Euphemia preens.

James gapes, scandalised.

Lily motions. “Shall we?”

Defeated, James trudges back around the table, collapsing into the chair beside Lily’s again.

“It’s a _fake_ party,” he repeats.

“Careful, Chandler,” Lily murmurs back. “Call her party ‘fake’ one more time, you may not get invited.”

“Promise?” James grumbles.

Then they’re laughing. Again.

_Client._

Euphemia claps her hands, beaming. “Let’s get started?”


	7. 700: Set

Despite twenty-six years of hard-won experience, James _still_ finds himself blinking, genuinely mystified, when he suddenly realises, mid-meeting, that in the same space of time it’s taken his mother to finish a single cup of tea, she’s  _also_  somehow managed to systematically fill every spare second of his next eight weeks with...fake party rubbish.

“—yes,  _lovely_ —”

“—Pomona does brilliant arrangements—”

_Rrrr-rr,_ vibrates his phone, and a new calendar alert pops up:  _ADDED: 12/7 <1100-1500>_  _Musical trio (quartet??) (band??) auditions._

Four  _hours_?

For question-marked  _music_?

“ ’Scuse me.” James lifts an objecting finger.  _Rrr-rr_ , growls his phone. “Can—”

“I’m thinking...two hundred people,” Mum says, tapping her pursed lips. “A cosy number.”

_Cosy?_ For bloody  _ants_ , maybe. James wants to laugh uproariously, but Mum is too far gone to acknowledge the lunacy, and Lily Evans—really, she’s seemed so  _reasonable_ —only hums in agreement.

“If you’re thinking the Montpellier,” she warns, “the main ballroom begs two-fifty. I’ll ring Marcia, but…”

“Marcia.” Mum glowers.

Lily nods. “I know. She and my sister get on, though. Maybe she’ll…be less a cow.”

“Or we’ll bypass the Montpellier entirely, tour other venues.” Mum’s smirk belies a level of burgeoning evil that another child might find worrisome, but which leaves James unfazed. “We’ll have a browse—”

_Rr-rrr_ —

Alright, that’s  _it_.

“Oi— _oi_!” He swipes an arm across the table, snatching Mum’s phone as  _his_ phone gives more taunting  _rr-rrrs_. Too slow _._  “Can—bloody hell, Mum, you’ve just overrun two appointments I had Thursday!”

“Your teeth are in excellent condition,” Mum sniffs, unrepentant. “And what’s ‘metime’ anyway? Is that a euphemism?”

Beside him, Lily Evans does a truly crap job at stifling a giant snort, and James flushes scarlet red as he bites out, “That says ‘ _meet ime_ ’, Mum. I-M-E. Image Management Enterprise. It’s  _work_.”

“Does it?” Like the fiend she is, Euphemia reaches into her bag, pulls out an iPad, and readjusts her reading glasses to glance at the device at closer vantage. She jabs some more.  _Rrr-rr._  “Ah, so it does. We’ll just…there. This is why capitalisation is _important_ , you know. And you can’t blame a mother for assuming.” She looks up at Lily, as James’s phone vibrates again. “It’s been  _ages_ since he’s had a proper girlfriend,” she whispers.

Lily Evans is pressing her lips together so tightly, they’ve nearly gone white.

“—if he’d just make _time_ , pay a bit of attention…he’s  _such_ a darling, usually—”

Universe, end him now.  _Please._

“Mum,” he interrupts instead, painstakingly slowly. “I can’t make all these appointments.”

“They’re tentative,” Euphemia claims, waving. “We’ll rearrange—”

Not happening. “I’ll make time for some, but—”

“James. This is  _important_.” Christ, now she’s frowning. “It’s tremendously significant to your father, and we’ve so little time with you, before you’re back up a mountain, or lost on an ocean—”

“That’s—” She’s being deliberately obtuse, and James is exasperated. “What about Sirius? Isn’t this why we adopted the arse? Shove off family obligations? If he joins—”

“Impossible.” Mum sighs. “Sirius is banned from party planning.”

_Banned?_

“Mum,” James says flatly, at the same time Lily scoffs, “Honestly, I didn’t  _ban_ him.”

James whirls around, eyebrows raised.

Even Lily’s tired exhale is pretty.

“During the new formula product launch,” she says, “I told him his cocktail list needed to contain fewer expletives. And  _he_ said he wouldn’t be controlled under a censoring dictator’s ruthless regime. So we…parted ways.” She shrugs lightly. “But last week he retweeted my  _Stranger Things_ joke, so I  _think_ we may be mates now?”

“Wait—about Jonathan and the fish?” At her nod, James grins. “That was you?”

Lily waves a hand, very  _oh, you know._

Yes, James is beginning to.

“See?” Euphemia says, motioning to Lily. “Clever, beautiful, hard-working—and now you’re insulting her.”

“What?” James whirls back. “I’m the  _opposite_ —”

“You’ve dismissed our appointments as trivial. It’s her  _job,_ ” Mum says. “That’s insulting.”

“It’s—”  _Not_ , he wants to finish, but recognises an undefeatable wall when he sees one. And another glance beside him suggests that a not-at-all-insulted-but- _highly-_ amused Lily Evans won’t be much help, either.

So he sighs and says nothing, and his phone goes  _rrr-rr._

 


	8. 800: &

** INBOX (19 Unread) **

**FROM:                                   SUBJECT**  
Palomo, Petra                           Party Planning  
Macdonald, Mary                    OMG THESE ARE EVEN BETTERR…  
Evans, Petunia                         New Florist – Budget Increase  
Macdonald, Mary                    RE: RE: RE: LILLLLLY! LOOOOOK…  
Macdonald, Mary                    RE: RE: LILLLLLY! LOOOOOK AT …  
Macdonald, Mary                    RE: LILLLLLY! LOOOOOK AT THE…

 

* * *

 

**TO:** levans@evanseventplanning.com  
**FR:** petra.palomo@sleekeazy.com  
**CC:** euphemia@sleekeazy.com  
**SUBJECT:** Party Planning

Hello Lily!

Euphemia wanted to pass on her thanks for the wonderful meeting this afternoon, and check if you’ll need anything further to set appointments this week? She’s quite keen on touring venues soon. Friday?

A copy of Euphemia’s schedule for the next few weeks is attached, and she says if you need access to James’s, she’d be happy to send on his password.

  
Petra

 

* * *

 

**LILY:** Will you quit clogging my bloody email?  
I’ve ACTUAL work to do, you know.  
And I’m just deleting them anyway.

**MARY:** DELETING THEM  
HA   
You’ve got your read receipts on, fool.

**LILY:** What?

**MARY:** Filthy liar

**LILY:** ONE.  
I accidentally opened ONE

**MARY:** With the charity footie match pics  
Where he’s all slick and sweaty  
With that band pushing back his hair  
Reckon even I dipped to a solid Kinsey 5.8 after that

**LILY:** I’ll let your wife know.

**MARY:** Who do you think was prowling Google while I was meeting with the dull Brotmans???

**LILY:** What??  
Dorcas is a bloody DOCTOR.  
Hasn’t she lives to save or something?

**MARY:** She can spare a minute or two to save your parched vagina

**LILY:** You’re disturbed, do you know that?

**MARY:** Excuse me. You were complaining YESTERDAY about your dick drought  
Loudly.  
In the office canteen.

**LILY:** Not in relation to a CLIENT.

**MARY:** We’re not going to TELL him.  
Honestly, what’s your damage, Heather??  
A little drooling never hurt nobody  
Was he a drippy arsehole or something?

**LILY:** No.  
He was fine.  
Nice.  
Funny.

**MARY:** ?????

**LILY:** ??

**MARY:** You sly minx.

**LILY:** ??

**MARY:** You like him!!

**LILY:** You got that from ‘fine’ ‘nice’ ‘funny’??

**MARY:** What else is there?

**LILY:** PROFESSIONALISM, for one.

**MARY:** What’s professionalism got to do with a bit of healthy fantasy?  
Unless you want to move it out of fantasy  
Into reality  
Bow-chicka-wow-wow

**MARY:** DON’T YOU DARE CLOSE YOUR OFFICE DOOR I’M COMING IN THERE

 

* * *

 

**TO:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com  
**FR:** levans@evanseventplanning.com[  
](mailto:euphemia@sleekeazy.com)**SUBJECT:** FW: Party Planning

Chandler,

Reckon it’s time to activate that two-step authentication.

Fondly,  
Monica

 

* * *

 

**JAMES:** you have been disowned  
officially  
forever  
and I’ve changed my password  
HACKER

**EUPHEMIA:** Let me guess  
Now it’s j@MeS12345

**JAMES:** FOREVER

* * *

 

**JAMES:** you’re helping with this party planning  
you owe me  
can’t think of why specifically atm but we’ve 26 years to draw from  
pick something

**SIRIUS:** no

**JAMES:** yes

**SIRIUS:** I’m banned

**JAMES:** bollocks. Lily told me

**SIRIUS:** jfc.  
Lily, is it?

**JAMES:** that’s her name??  
I know you like her  
she’s just your sort of biting clever  
plus you retweeted her  
feud over no?

**SIRIUS:** that was before she lost me twenty quid

**JAMES:**??

**SIRIUS:** tattled about the fucking password  
she could’ve been adding phantom appointments to your calendar for WEEKS  
drove you straight up the wall  
bloody missed opportunity  
I expected better of her

**JAMES:** how do you even know about that??

**SIRIUS:** family group chat

**JAMES:** you’re discussing the gross offering of my personal information up to strangers in the family group chat?  
and wagering on it?

**SIRIUS:** STRANGER now, is she?  
what happened to LILY

**JAMES:** what’s that supposed to mean?

**SIRIUS:** it means you’re going to lose me another twenty quid, wanker ****  
ought’ve known not to bet against Euphemia  
she’s got a sly deal with the universe  
or the devil  
or the scientologists

**JAMES:** wait, what’s the other twenty quid?

**SIRIUS:** haven’t figured it out yet?

**JAMES:**???

**SIRIUS:** you’ve been up a mountain too long  
lack of oxygen  
slowed your wits  
you’re decidedly less interesting now  
this is why we sacked you from the family

**JAMES:** what the bloody hell are you on about

**SIRIUS:** get back to me when you’ve sorted it  
goodbye

**JAMES:** you’re helping with this bloody party!!!

**SIRIUS:** no  
goodbye  
forever  
but also pick up burritos for dinner I am hungry  


* * *

 

**TO:** levans@evanseventplanning.com  
**FR:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com [  
](mailto:euphemia@sleekeazy.com)**SUBJECT:** RE: FW: Party Planning

Monica,

Thank you kindly for not spending the next eight weeks mysteriously filling my calendar with false appointments like “Toe Fungus Convention” and “Explosive Plumbing Issue.” Much appreciated.

May cheer you to know you’ve lost Sirius twenty quid in the doing. Or maybe forty. Still sorting that bit.

Families, eh?

Viva Las Gaygas,  
Chandler

 

* * *

 

**TO:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com  
**FR:** levans@evanseventplanning.com[  
](mailto:euphemia@sleekeazy.com)**SUBJECT:** RE: FW: Party Planning

I’m cheered? I think?

So I suppose I’m leaving you off this venue appointment email for Friday?

* * *

 

**TO:** levans@evanseventplanning.com  
**FR:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com [  
](mailto:euphemia@sleekeazy.com)**SUBJECT:** RE: FW: Party Planning

Lord help me…but no.

See you Friday?

* * *

 

**TO:** pot2trotphoto@gmail.com  
**FR:** levans@evanseventplanning.com[  
](mailto:euphemia@sleekeazy.com)**SUBJECT:** RE: FW: Party Planning

See you Friday.

 


	9. 900: Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Jilytober in some time zone. Enjoy! =)

“Well. Reckon that about clinches your sexual harassment lawsuit, doesn’t it?”

Lily’s eyes lift from her phone screen, eyebrows arching at this plaintively sighed inquiry. She drums her fingers around the toasty warm cup of tea cradled in her left hand, her right still clutching the small device that even now remains open to the group text they'd both just received, big and blue and boldly unbashful:

**Apologies, darlings -- VILE traffic. Meet at venue. Tea on me!  
xoxo E**

Euphemia—who'd selected this lovely café not far from the first event space they were set to tour this sunny Friday afternoon, who'd _insisted_ on the early meet, claiming they'd require a spot of sustenance before diligently venue browsing—was running late.

Abruptly.

Uncharacteristically.

 _Again_.

And wouldn’t you know— _not_ abruptly and uncharacteristically tardy? Euphemia's son, who'd greeted Lily with a distractingly crooked grin and a flashy doffing of his gleaming aviators (“Prescription,” he'd told her, swapping them for his usual specs as he’d held open the café door for her), bought her this toasty tea, and who now seemed to be worrying over possible litigation.

 _I have his number_ , is, stupidly, the only thought Lily's brain can muster at that particular moment.

She hastily pockets her phone, like this might hide her potential duplicity.

(Nevermind her furiously burning cheeks.)

“Sorry?” she offers lamely.

James—whose annoyingly handsome face has become nearly familiar now, damn bloody Mary and her sodding sinful e-mails to the deepest depths of _hell_ —gives a dramatic, Olivier-worthy exhale.

“Not subtle, my mother,” he laments. “And I’ve lost faith in the possibility that you may not be catching on at this point. You’re too clever, and she’s not even trying anymore.”

“It _has_ all gone somewhat suspect,” Lily concedes, absently toying at the curls she'd spent a half-hour meticulously constructing that morning. “Plus, the communications.”

James’s coffee freezes halfway to his lips. “Communications?”

“Haven’t gotten any on your end?” Lily asks. “After generously volunteering your services for a party photo display, she sent over your website portfolio for me to vet yesterday…along with a list of awards you've received. _And_ a really lovely article wrote up last spring—oh, and then some _adorable_ baby photos. Apparently meant to use for comparison? Or something? Honestly, it all went a bit murky after she somehow sneaked in a brief rundown of your recent dating history with possible table settings—”

“Fucking hell.” James's cup goes _thunk_ against the café table, his head falling dejectedly into his palms. “You’re kidding.”

Lily gamely pats his shoulder. “You were an adorable baby.”

“You should quit,” James says, voice muffled. “You should quit and sue and get a trillion pounds.”

“A _trillion_?” Lily laughs, forcing her fingers from his soft shirt, and the tempting warmth of skin permeating from beneath. “Is this more enticement, then?”

“She’s never done this before.” His hands drop, and his head shakes. “I don’t know when she got so bloody desperate.”

Lily pulls a face. “Thanks?”

Hazel eyes dart up.

“What? No, not _you._ I—” His hand reaches out, covering hers on the table. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. _You’re_ the prize here. Any day now I expect you’ll be receiving a tempting dowry offer of eight cows and six wine barrels to take me off her hands.”

“Well, that’s silly.” Lily keeps her eyes trained on his face, feeling like this is somehow better than fixating on the hand that’s still covering hers—calloused and comforting and _cosy_ , dammit. “I would never accept anything less than nine cows.”

“Save your wit for the worthy,” James protests, but his mouth lifts anyway. “You can’t possibly be okay with this. It’s mortifying. Inappropriate.”

They’re words she’s thought countless times over the last two days: _mortifying_ and _inappropriate_ and _unprofessional_ and _Google Image thirst trap_ , and a slew of other less-than-complimentary-but-nonetheless-applicable recriminations she’s cycled through during Euphemia’s various communications, and the inexplicable occurrence that led to Mary's e-mails _somehow_ reappearing from Lily's Deleted folder back into her Inbox, and the hours— _hours_ —she’d spent clicking through his photography portfolio—

Christ, she’s been _ridiculous_.

He’s a _stranger._ He can’t know how ridiculous she’s been.

How she…

_What? Has salivated after him? Thought about him? Considered Euphemia might be on to something?_

“Can I be honest?” Lily asks.

James sighs. “More honest than ‘Please don’t sue my family, I’m pretty certain you have a case’?”

Lily’s lips twitch. “I like your mum. A lot. She’s funny, and kind, and… _generous_ , James. _So_ generous. Beyond any other client I have, frankly. I don’t want to—”

“That doesn’t mean she gets to make you _uncomfortable,_ Lily! That’s not—”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Lily.”

“I’m not! It’s…sweet. Flattering.”

“Flattering that she thinks she can pawn me off on you?”

“Flattering that she’d _try_. That she’d want to. We know her game now, right? So it’s fine. As long as you’re not going to be a creep about it, where’s the harm? Not a creep, are you?”

James frowns. “No. But—”

“Good. I’m not a creep, either. So let her keep sending baby pictures and medical records, if that’s what makes her happy. We’re fine. Right?”

It’s a lie.

Such, _such_ a lie.

But she’ll _make_ it true, dammit. She has to.

“I s’ppse,” James murmurs, considering this…then he double-takes. “Wait. Did you say _medical records_?”

_Fine. It’s all fine._


	10. 1000: A Trojan Horse

The thing about touring venues for a fake party that you don’t believe in and which you’ve begun to suspect may all be some nefariously elaborate ruse on the part of one diabolical mastermind to foist you off on an unsuspecting and far too generous woman of clear unwarranted kindness...is that it leaves ample time for incessant texting.

James is quite good at incessant texting.

Quite, _quite_ good.

And his mother has never deserved it more.

**this ends now, mum**

**NOW**

**no more lateness, no more fake tea dates, no more MEDICAL RECORDS, for christ’s sake**

**the legalities running amuck here are horrifying**

**HORRIFYING**

**but the point is**

**you can’t do this to her**

**and me**

**but mostly her**

**you know those films that have the lechy boss character who everyone boos and throws popcorn at and that no one ever wins oscars for?**

**that’s you right now**

**pimping your son out to an employee is SEXUAL HARASSMENT, mum**

**I told lily to sue**

**I bet she’s giving it a think**

**I would be a witness for her side**

**a COMPELLING witness**

**there would be weeping. Gentle dabs of a handkerchief**

**she’s UNCOMFORTABLE, mum**

**you’re making her uncomfortable**

**I mean, she said she’s not, but she’s just trying to keep her job**

**THE LEVELS OF ABUSE AT PLAY HERE**

**you should be ashamed of yourself**

**you’re not being clever or subtle about any of this**

**that you would think—**

“Pay _attention_ ,” a warm voice hisses at his ear, moments before James's fingertips slip like slicked-up soap off the electronic keys, his phone snatched clear from his diligently curled clutches. He whirls around with a gasp of protest, just as Lily strides briskly past him, nary a glance offered his way. With smooth casualness, she neatly tucks his phone into the rear pocket of her slim black trousers.

James stares blankly at the pocket (mostly), lips still parted in outrage as she idly asks their tour guide about the acoustics of the largest ballroom, like she hasn't just robbed him.

Like he isn’t doing this for _her._

He hurries to catch up.

"I'm not being creepy," he whispers at _her_ ear, tugging her back as Mum and the venue guide continue forward, chattering about musical arrangements. Red hair skims his cheek as his other hand reaches slowly for her pocket. “I’m just getting my phone.”

She smells like vanilla, and a hint of something floral.

Warm fingers catch his wrist, emerald eyes flashing to his like targeted lightning.

_Fucking hell, those eyes of hers are lethal._

“Why do you need it?” she asks.

He hesitates only a moment. “Work.”

“Work.”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not _lying_ ,” he lies. Like a liar.

Her lips purse, but James doesn't know if it's in annoyance or amusement.

He _does_ know that she's still holding his hand.

"You're supposed to be helping," she says, sighing with impatience.

James wiggles his fingers. They might be tingling. "I _am_ helping."

"With the _party_."

His stare is dry. "It's not a party, Lily. It's a Trojan horse."

She returns the look. "It can't be a Trojan horse if Troy _knows_ what's inside. The intrinsic nature of the concept is contingent on the surprise. But we've caught on. No surprise. Plan thwarted.”

“That—”

“Earlier you said it was fine!”

"I didn't say it was _fine_. I said it was—" James gives a huff of frustration. Honestly, he can’t remember what he’d said. It had all been a blur of tragic humiliation and…something. "I was wrong. She can't be _doing_ this to you—"

"Us,” Lily corrects. “Doing it to _us_. Don’t abandon Troy now.”

_Us_.

James shakes his head.

"But only one of us is biologically required to endure her. The other can sue and buy herself a yacht." He leans closer, cajoling. "Don't you _want_ a yacht, Lily?"

She briefly ponders this. "Not particularly."

"A helicopter, then."

"Who am I, Harrison Ford? I don't have a death wish."

"You can buy yourself," James tries next, "a _trillion_ hot lattes."

" _Or_ ," Lily counters, "I can do my job, get paid, and treat myself a perfectly respectable _once a week_."

James doesn't know at what point he starts laughing—doesn't know when she joins him, or maybe starts first, or perhaps, somehow, in the otherworldly way of these things, begins to grin at the exact same moment he does, and easily accelerates from there. He just knows that they’re laughing together now, and his stomach is bubbling, and still— _still—_ she hasn’t dropped his hand.

This is the issue.

The big, colossal, unavoidable _issue._

He is boiling with guilt and shame; a steaming kettle whistling its protest. His mum is unbelievable. He ought to have caught on earlier. This has all gone to shambles so quickly. He thinks—

_IthinkIcouldlikeyouIthinkIcouldlikeyouIthink—_

“I think,” James says, “this isn’t fair to you.”

“And that’s very sweet of you.” She drops his wrist, but only to sweep her hand up his arm. “But unnecessary. If she trusses you up naked and mails you to my flat, _then_ we can object, but—”

“ _That’s_ your line?” James sputters. “Naked human post?”

She shrugs. “You’d probably be incredibly expensive to courier.”

She finds it all funny, and maybe James should too. Lord knows he’s never had hardship finding humour in his mad family’s absurd antics before. The problem, of course, is that the thing James finds most funny in all of this is _her_ , and that’s…

She hands back over his phone.

“Indulge your mother,” she says. “And me. At least _pretend_ to venue browse.”

James takes a long breath.

“Fine,” he mutters.

She gives him a bright smile that James feels in his toes.

As she strolls off to catch up with the tour, James glances down at his phone. There are two new messages.

**What on god’s good earth made you think I was trying to be subtle?**

**No matter. My bit is done. Now it’s up to you, my darling. Good luck xoxo**


	11. 1100: Inner Peace

** INBOX (21 Unread) **

**FROM:                                   SUBJECT**  
Macdonald, Mary                    ???? all staff?????  
Evans, Petunia                        0915 - All Staff Meeting  
Potter, James                          BOATS, BOATS, BOATS  
Brotman, Jane                         Too late to change theme? :)  
Potter, Euphemia                    Photo display  
Evans, Padrig                          Hullo from Kuala Lumpur!

* * *

**MARY:** Jesus

**LILY:** I’m going to scream

**MARY:** Fuck me

**LILY:** SCREAM

**MARY:** You had no idea she was going to do that?

**LILY:** What?  
Call an impromptu meeting for our entire staff?  
Spend half of it berating you for not using more expensive vendors?  
The same vendors I told her last week we CAN’T use because they’ll completely blow every event’s budget and lose us our entire clientele?  
No.  
No, I did not.

**MARY:** You didn’t let her berate us.  
You stopped it.

**LILY:** I’m going to SCREAM  
Or cry.  
Probably cry.

**MARY:** Don’t cry.  
Everyone knows your sister is full of shite.  
Let’s take heavy weaponry to her office instead.  
Really PULVERIZE it.  
Not in there to stop us, is she?  
Popped in to drop her tyranny, filch our breakfast pastry, then just LEFT.  
Like my racist Uncle Tad at Christmas.

**LILY:** God.  
When did she get this way?

**MARY:** …birth?

**LILY:** No.  
I mean, yeah, a bit.  
But THIS?  
Our mother hired half this staff.  
She trusted us with them. With the company.  
And Tunie’s just…

**MARY:** Fucking singular way to deal with grief, isn’t it?  
Transforming into a complete hag?

**LILY:** Reckon none of us Evanses have gone about it quite correctly  
Petunia has toppled headfirst into blind visions of grandeur  
Dad is Eat, Pray, Love-ing his way across the South Pacific  
I’m…  
Whatever I’m doing.

**MARY:** Drowning yourself in work.  
Letting your family treat you like shit.  
Contemplating a cat.

**LILY:** Thanks.

**MARY:** Lies don’t serve, my love.  
Open your office door.  
You’re not actually weeping in there, are you?

**LILY:** No.  
I’m staring resolutely at a tranquil mountain sunrise in the hopes that I can find inner peace.

**MARY:** Ooh  
I need inner peace too.  
Send it over!!

**LILY:** Sent.

**MARY:** OooHh  
That’s LOVELY  
Sigh  
Where’d you find this? Google?

**LILY:** Something like that.

**MARY:** Lily.

**LILY:** What?

**MARY:** This shit is watermarked.  
Like, all over.

**LILY:** Shut up.

**MARY:** It says Potter  
Literally everywhere

**LILY:** I know.

**MARY:** And I’m supposed to just ignore that?

**LILY:** If you wouldn’t mind.

**MARY:** I am a strong person, Lily Evans.  
But I am simply not THAT strong.

**LILY:** I am in an emotionally weak state.  
It’s cruel and inhumane to exploit that.

**MARY:** Agreed.  
Did you let James Potter explore your inner peace at the weekend?

**LILY:** Mary.

**MARY:** What??  
Last I heard, Euphemia had gone full Dolly Gallagher Levi and he was buying you yummy tea and expensive yachts.  
I would barter my inner peace too.  
All weekend long.

**LILY:** I haven’t even spoken to him since Friday.

**MARY:** Booooooooo

**LILY:** He did e-mail more pictures of yachts, though.

**MARY:** That eager whore.

**LILY:** The whole thing is so silly.  
I only fancy him because I can’t have him.  
I barely know him.  
We’ve spoken, like, twice.

**MARY:** FANCY, do we?

**LILY:** In the most asinine and childish way.  
It’ll pass.

**MARY:** Or it won’t.

**LILY:** It will.  
I’m just…agitated.  
And he’s funny and pretty to look at.

**MARY:** And talented, apparently.  
Plus, very rich.

**LILY:** I don’t care that he’s rich.

**MARY:** Didn’t say you did. Doesn’t hurt, though, does it?

**LILY:** Euphemia wants him to do a photo display for the party.  
I should probably e-mail him.

**MARY:** Or you can text him  
Something like:  
“I hear you know something about photos. I do too.”  
Then a photo of you.  
Naked.

**LILY:** Subtle.

**MARY:** Go find your inner peace, Lil.

**LILY:** Goodbye, Mary.

* * *

**TO:** pevans@evanseventplanning.com  
 **FR** : levans @evanseventplanning.com  
 **SUBJECT:** All Staff

We need to talk about the meeting this morning. Call me, please.

Lily

* * *

**LILY:** Question for you  
This is Lily, by the way.  
Evans.  
The event planner.

**JAMES:** who?  
I’m afraid you’re going to need to be more specific  
three identifying qualifiers simply weren’t enough

**LILY:** Ha.

**JAMES:** I knew who it was  
your number is in my phone.  
is your question about the 50m super yacht with the detachable slide?  
because that is my choice for you

**LILY:** No.  
That one had a very stupid name.  
I’m insulted by your choice.

**JAMES:** what was it called?

**LILY:** Brouhaha.

**JAMES:** no it wasn’t

**LILY:** Are you calling me a liar?  
Who could come up with ‘Brouhaha’ on the spot?

**JAMES:** Christ, you’re right.  
crap namers shouldn’t get to name things.

**LILY:** I’ve planned one too many baby showers to disagree.

**JAMES:** what was the worst baby name?  
no, wait  
let me guess  
armadillo st. angelique  
paperweight marshall  
teverleigh bobsled the third

**LILY:** Did you name Brouhaha too?

**JAMES:** caught me

**LILY:** Can I ask my real question now?

**JAMES:** by all means, before I start naming more things

**LILY:** Your mother wants a photo display for the party

**JAMES:** that’s not a question

**LILY:** Can’t make the jump?

**JAMES:** not under these circumstances

**LILY:** Can you please assist with the photo display, James?

**JAMES:** no  
I know nothing of photos  
wrong person  
sorry

**LILY:** There is a mountain sunrise landscape I’ve been staring at all morning that begs to differ.

**JAMES:** what mountain sunrise landscape?

**LILY:** The one on your website.

**JAMES:** I was up a mountain for five weeks. There were a lot of mountain sunrises.

**LILY:** You just…climbed a mountain for five weeks?

**JAMES:** no  
I mean, sort of.  
but also no.

**LILY:** Informative.

**JAMES:** it was a project.  
these three blokes had been mates most of their lives, and climbed all the time.  
then one of them died.  
they had this climb in Peru already planned, so the other two spent months researching funeral and mourning rituals. Hundreds, from all over the world.  
ended up picking forty-seven of them, to attempt during the climb  
they wanted it documented, so I went along.

**LILY:** That’s…really beautiful, actually.

**JAMES:** cocked up a good half of them.  
but reckon that made it better.

**LILY:** I thought your mum was exaggerating, saying you disappeared up mountains and in oceans.

**JAMES:** alas, quite literal, that.

**LILY:** Ocean too?

**JAMES:** ocean too.

**LILY:** …?

**JAMES:** I’ll make you a deal  
I will tell you about the ocean  
IF  
you don’t make me do the photo display

**LILY:** OR  
You can meet me for lunch, because I am starving.  
And I will convince you about the photo display.  
And you can tell me about the ocean.

**JAMES:** Hard bargain.  
But deal.

**LILY:** Pleasure doing business.


	12. 1200: Pollock

“I’m sorry…did you just say ‘ _lost at sea’_?”

James registers this question—registers, too, the dry incredulousness with which Lily Evans, Event Planner, expels it. Can acknowledge, even, that such a tone, such a question, is fair. James _has_ , after all, indeed just used the phrase _lost at sea_ , in the middle of a casual conversation, amid an equally casual lunch, at an otherwise nondescript pub off the Bakerloo line, halfway between Lily’s office and James’s flat, which they’d agreed upon because Lily had said she wanted chips and James had them here once and they were big and wedged and didn’t sop oil, and that seemed good enough for Lily.

So here they are, and the question is there, but even in the registering and acknowledging, James is distracted.

Distracted, because Lily Evans, Event Planner, is a weirdo.

An undeniable, unhypothetical, certified _weirdo_.

She hadn’t just ordered chips. She’d ordered a panini too, and had grinned in delight when the meal had arrived, a bright flash of teeth that had spun James’s gut and seen his fingernails digging into his thighs.

But then he’d watched her— _he’d watched—_ as she did the most _weirdo_ thing James has ever encountered. She’d taken her food—the panini, sliced neatly into halves; the hefty pile of chips, thick and hot and not oil-sopped, as promised—and she’d _pushed them all_ to the very edges of the plate, creating an outline of foodstuffs with a big empty circle in the middle, which she had promptly filled with little dots of assorted condiments she’d grabbed from the little rack at the end of their booth. And one by one— _one by one_ —she’d proceeded to pluck chips from the edge of her plate and _drag_ the ends through the condiments, creating what James can only call an abstract piece of bizarro culinary art.

He’s having lunch with bloody Jackson Pollock, and no one informed him.

It is all too much.

_Too_ much.

“I’m sorry—yes, I—but I can’t—I can’t just _ignore_ this.” His hand flails, nearly knocking over his coke. “I—what _is_ this?”

“What is what?” she asks, blinking.

“ _This_.”

“Eating?”

“No. That’s not eating.”

“Mm.” She picks up a chip. “Food. Check. Lift to mouth. Check. Chew. Check. Swallow, digest. Che—”

“Lily Evans.” James’s tone is disbelieving. “You are _playing with your food_.”

She reels back. “I am not _playing with my food_.”

James’s fingers can’t stop pointing. To the plate. To the condiments. To the circumference of chip and panini. Wild pointing, likely with a crazed look in his eyes, because words have failed him.

“Oh.” She shrugs jauntily, unconcerned. “It’s just a thing I do.”

Now James is laughing. He can’t _not_ laugh. She’s so… _so…_

Fucking hell.

He pulls out his phone, bringing up the camera. With a skillful tilt of his wrist, he captures the menacing plate, which now looks like a blood and guts spattered crime scene.

“You’re very strange, do you know that?” Lily comments, watching him.

“Yes,” James deadpans. “ _I_ am the strange one at this table.”

Lily’s mouth tilts up at the ends. She nibbles at her lower lip, a closed-mouth chuckle.

“At least,” she returns grandly, picking up another chip, “ _I_ have never been lost at sea _._ ”

“Excuse you.” James primly takes a sip of his coke. “If you were paying _attention_ , you would’ve heard that _I_ did not say I was lost at sea. I said that _my_ _mother_ often _claims_ I was lost at sea. Which I was not. _I_ knew exactly where I was. So did the Coastguard Service. Mostly. But the wind had gone, so the sails were useless, and our motor crapped out, and the crew engineer was attempting to fix it on her own, so by the time my mother heard word, it had _technically_ been seventy-two hours, which she often makes sound like nine hundred, so when she brings it up—which she inevitably _always_ does—now you know the truth.”

“That you were lost at sea,” Lily immediately returns, “for nine hundred hours.”

James sighs. “The two of you deserve each other.”

Lily only laughs, giving her chip another twirl through the plate painting.

To her left, her phone begins to vibrate for the third time in their short meal.

“Sorry.” She glances at it briefly, then ignores the call.

“You can get that,” James says.

Lily shakes her head. “It’s just my sister.”

“She keeps ringing. Could be an emergency—”

“It’s not,” Lily says flatly. Her eyes flicker to the phone. “We spoke earlier. It’s a work thing. She’s only ringing to yell.”

James’s brows lift. “At you?”

Lily opens her mouth to answer, then closes it. Her lips instead curl into a pained-looking smile. She gives her head another shake.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “It’s fine.”

James has never been so certain that it is neither _nothing_ nor _fine_.

“Is this why you were staring at mountain sunrise landscapes all morning?” he prods.

She snorts. “I was searching for inner peace.”

For whatever reason, this makes her glance down, busying herself with her chips, her face flushing.

She’s embarrassed by his nudging into her business—which is not _his_ business. He knows it’s not. But something in him can’t drop it. Can’t let her sit there—can’t sit here _with_ her—knowing she’s distressed. He was not spawned by the world’s biggest meddler for nothing. He has good intentions. He just…

He _just_ …

_Rrrr-rr_.

“ _God_.” Lily rejects the call again with sharper, impatient movements.

James shifts slightly. “You can—”

“ _No_.” She’s firmer with him this time too. “She said her piece earlier. It’s fine. I’m not letting her interrupt a client lunch—”

“I’m not your client,” James immediately cuts in.

Lily stills across the table. “Yes, you are.”

“No,” James repeats, “I’m not. My mother is your client.”

“And you’re her son. Who is helping—”

“ _Ha_.”

“Fine. Who is _present_ —”

“Through emotional familial _blackmail_.”

“All the same—”

“Not the same at all.”

“—doing a photo display—”

“I haven’t agreed to that yet,” James objects, ignoring the look Lily gives him that clearly says _c’mon, mate_. “But even if I _had_ done,” he adds, “not paying me, are you?”

Lily squints. “Well…”

“See? I’m a manipulated volunteer, at most.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m not your client,” James repeats again, firmly, steel in his voice.

Emerald eyes view him through shrewd, narrowed lids, and something quick flashes over Lily’s face, too fast for James to name it.

He doesn’t want this to matter, but it does.

Fucking hell, it _does_.

There’s a long moment of hesitation. Lily picks up another chip and twirls it absently in the Pollock. James’s eyes fixate on her fingers, curled around the chip, _playing with her food_ , no matter what she says.

Weirdly, bizarrely, _adorably_ playing with her food.

Her fingers stop. She drops the chip on the plate.

“Fine,” she says, looking up. “You’re not a client.”

James breathes, then smiles.

* * *

**JAMES:** where’s the xmas gift I gave you?

**SIRIUS:** in a place of great honour

**JAMES:** under your bed, then?

**SIRIUS:** probably

**JAMES:** I’m stealing it

**SIRIUS:** cool


End file.
